A play off of Manet's Luncheon on the Grass.

Acknowledging art's use of objectified women is irritating. Why would I find amusement in male artists defining the female image? Goddess, mother, muse, sex-object- I am none, so where would my identity be found? Cannot it not exist outside of the maternal and the erotic?

I wish they had not been compared to hollister-esque clothing designs. But I am glad they turned out well.

I'm trapped in the grocery store by pregnant ex-classmates. It was possibly the most uncomfortable ten minutes of my life thus far. Pregnant women seem as though they are violating my personal space, and I am too close to the floating undeveloped human being inside of them. The immense awkwardness of that particular happening is not because we were old classmates, but more the slap in the face reminder of the suffocating mentality of a place like that. The one that sees collage as a means for smart girls to find a smart husband, and nothing more. To them, I'm just in finishing school.

I can render in real life, to do so on the computer seems like a step backwards. Photoshop is chinsy and very paint  program-esque. I hate talking, and am going to start bringing a mini white board and marker to class.